


R&R

by linguamortua



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 10:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: It’s nice to be home.





	R&R

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cleared Hot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587128) by [trill_gutterbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug). 



> Someone should write a fanfiction about how me and [Trill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug) are always jerking each other off. We've been talking about Nate and Mike for three weeks now and show no sign of slowing down.

Down a quiet street in a shabbily aging suburb is a cream and brown house, fronted by a square of grass that needs some attention. There’s a porch and a garage and a tree that shades the yard. In the tree, some birds chatter to one another as Mike turns his truck into the drive, his two fingers hooked at the bottom of the steering wheel and his elbow resting on the open window. He kills the engine.

‘Well,’ he says, looking over at Nate. ‘Here we are.’

‘Where’s the pool?’ Nate asks, and Mike snorts. They grab their bags and Nate follows Mike up the flagstoned path to the front door. A jingle of keys and a creak; Mike steps through the doorway and into the house. He doesn't turn on the lights. Inside it smells a little dusty and shut up, but good, Nate thinks. Sun-warmed wood and the residual sweetness of years of laundry and furniture polish. They kick off their shoes. Mike traipses up the narrow, creaking stairs into what must once have been the attic. Half the floor space of the house, opened up into a loft bedroom with a dormer window.

Nate immediately goes to look out of it, even though all he sees is the front yard again, from a different angle. He sets his bag down on the floor.

‘I’ll make some space for your kit,’ Mike says, and Nate snatches his bag up again.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘For what?’ Mike opens a drawer and offloads a pile of clothes into a different drawer. ‘There you are,’ he says. He makes a vague gesture towards it. ‘Bathroom’s downstairs on the left. I’m gonna go check the house over.’

Nate nods, and listens to Mike creaking his way back down the stairs. He empties his backpack into the drawer, and hangs the empty bag on a hook on the wall. There’s a dressing gown on the adjacent hook. He tries to imagine it on Mike, where logically it must spend some of its time, but the mental image eludes him. 

There’s the lazy hum of someone mowing their lawn in the middle distance as Nate goes downstairs, his socked feet sliding on the wood floors in the hallway. Mike has a kettle going in the kitchen, and the back door open so that the almost-warm spring air gets in. Nate feels a little adrift, awkward in someone else’s house. 

‘Did you want the tour?’ Mike asks, coming back inside. Nate, whose fingers are itching to open the fridge, the pantry, the kitchen drawers, shakes his head mutely.

‘I’ll figure it out,’ he says. And then, ‘I don’t want to get in your way.’

‘Shit, I asked you to get in my way,’ Mike says pleasantly. Nate almost shivers. He’s been invited here on the strength of a couple of months thrown together in the Middle East and a hurried, discreet handjob—Nate’s hand, an empty supply tent. His mother’s half-hearted attempts at teaching him etiquette haven’t really prepared him for this. 

Nate skirts the outside edge of the kitchen and comes over to Mike. ‘Maybe I’ll check out the neighbourhood,’ he says, a little aimlessly. He’s not sure what he wants here. Perhaps for Mike to give him direction. Or he’s just got the weird skittishness that comes with being in somebody else’s house for the first time. Mike stretches out a hand and gets hold of the back of Nate’s neck, giving it a squeeze. Nate’s eyes flutter closed. God, he misses being touched.

‘I’ll leave the back door unlocked,’ Mike says. 

‘Do you want anything?’ Nate asks. He doesn’t know what he’s offering. Maybe there’s a grocery store. Maybe Mike’s waiting for him to get on his knees.

‘Nah,’ says Mike. ‘Have fun.’

Nate doesn’t have fun. He walks under the trees, along paving stones that have seen better days. He passes folks out on their front porches. A guy mowing a lawn. Some kids playing a game of street hockey. More than a few abandoned houses, their yards overgrown and their windows falling in like broken teeth.

It’s okay. It’s peaceful. On the loop back, Nate takes his shoes off and walks along the grass verge by the road. But it’s not fun.

‘What is fun, anyway?’ he asks Mike flippantly as he walks into the lounge. Mike has his feet up on the coffee table and he’s reading a dog-eared copy of _Rainbow Six_. He laughs, a deep chuckle.

‘Yeah,’ he agrees. 

Nate comes to sit by him on the couch and grabs a magazine from the rack on the floor. Something about cars.

‘You into cars?’ he asks.

‘Not really,’ Mike says. He looks over at Nate, amusement written all over his face. ‘Hobbies are for normal people.’

‘Downtime is brutal,’ says Nate.

‘You get used to it,’ Mike tells him.

The afternoon passes like that; on the couch, in the sun, trying to read. At some point Nate turns around to lean against the arm of the couch, and he tests the limits, stretching his dirty feet out onto Mike’s lap. Mike pats his shin and leaves his hand there, except when he has to turn a page.

They order pizza, and garlic knots, and mediocre vanilla ice cream with a swirl of fake strawberry in the middle, and eat it on the couch with a childish abandon that ultimately borders on the unpleasant.

‘We should have ordered something with vegetables,’ Nate says, uncomfortably full, and Mike snorts.

Afternoon bleeds slowly into evening in a sort of hazy, pleasant boredom that is both familiar and strangely new. There’s an acorn of anxiety in Nate’s stomach. He realises it’s there at about eight in the evening, and rests a hand on his belly, trying to self-soothe. It’s more benign than the kind of nerves he’s experienced lately. Feels like the top of a rollercoaster, or a first date.

Or a first date.

‘Well, shit,’ Nate mouths to himself as he collapses the pizza boxes and stacks them neatly behind the garbage can in the kitchen. That’s what it is. Somewhere in his subconscious, he’s recalling the zinging, electric pleasure of Mike’s touch in a warzone and calculating the likelihood that he’ll get that here. Mike, who likes him—who has said as much—has invited Nate to stay with him. That implies that he will. Nate worries, suddenly extremely consciously, whether or not it’ll be the same when they’re no longer desperate and miserable. 

But then, he can’t ever really remember Mike seeming desperate about anything.

Definitely not when Nate goes back into the lounge and lies down on the couch again, this time daring to drop his head down on Mike’s thigh. Mike just smiles down at him and rests his hand on Nate’s chest. Nate watches it rise and fall with his breath for a while, wondering if something will happen, wondering if he should make it happen. 

In the end, nothing happens. Night falls, and they trade off yawns in tandem. Nate doesn’t argue when Mike hauls himself to his feet and makes noises about bedtime. He brushes his teeth side by side with Mike, waits for Mike to go upstairs and then pisses and washes his hands and face. The stairs creak quietly as he walks up into the dark, and feels his way across the room. The sheets are clean and cool, and he feels the raised weave of the green and blue check under his hands. Mike is breathing deep and calm to his left. There’s no light. It could be the desert in the middle of the night. 

He shuffles, lying on his back, then rolling to his side. The pillow isn’t quite right—no, it’s the mattress that’s wrong. Is he too warm? Too cold? Neither, in fact, and he’s not hungry or thirsty. He’s tired, that he knows. A bone deep, grinding tiredness that means his brain and body need weeks of uninterrupted rest. His hip hurts, and his neck and back. All this is normal. He’s young and he’ll repair. But he can’t sleep. He rolls back onto his back again.

Quietly, but with amusement in his voice, Mike tells him, ‘Y’know, you’d fall asleep faster if you lay still.’

Nate freezes. ‘Sorry. I’m keeping you awake. I can take the couch. I just need—’

‘I know what you need,’ Mike says. He rolls over, and Nate doesn’t have time to respond or react before Mike’s comforting weight is on him. All of Nate’s breath huffs out of him and he doesn’t have enough left to laugh. He wants to, though, because he’s been desperate for Mike to touch him all day and somehow hasn’t had enough of it. He’s been desperate for the kind of firm, reassuring, take-no-shit Mike that he’s just spent a month with in the desert. And here he is, on top of Nate with his cock getting hard against Nate’s hip.

‘Fuck yes,’ Nate manages to say. He works his hand down between their bodies. ‘Let me jerk you off.’ Mike’s breath catches with a little _huh_ noise behind it, an animal and unconscious thing that tells Nate more than words that he wants it, Mike wants it, wants him. ‘Come on.’ 

Mike shifts his weight and Nate fumbles his hand down Mike’s boxers to get at him. As soon as he touches skin, they both inhale sharply in unison. Mike’s arms are framing Nate’s face, elbows down on the mattress as he might be if he were shielding Nate from an explosion. Then he brings his face down to Nate’s neck, warm breath, a brush of skin. Nate makes a noise in his throat and grinds up against Mike’s body. It’s been so long for him that it would be easy to come just with this. 

He strokes Mike in slow, long caresses, the way he himself likes it. It seems to be working fine, because Mike opens his mouth against Nate’s throat and shifts a hand to cup the back of Nate’s skull. Words escape Nate, so he lets himself make another pleased sound and tips his head back so Mike’s taking the weight of his head. In soft, warm little nudges, Mike’s mouth moves up Nate’s neck to his ear, shivery-good and gentle. Nate’s hips are moving in slow circles against Mike’s body. He doesn’t need anything else. The touch of mouth on skin is almost enough anyway.

‘You good?’ Mike asks him, his voice thick and low.

‘Mm,’ says Nate, pressing his face against Mike’s cheek. ‘Don’t stop.’ 

Mike doesn’t stop. They get off in a slow drag of skin-on-skin, Nate shuddering out every exhale. His hips and hand move together. They have the luxury of time and privacy and Nate sinks into it, lets himself make noise. Mike’s cock twitches in Nate’s hand and he groans, in a rumble that vibrates against Nate’s chest. The pulse in Nate’s throat hammers in furious sympathy. He’s rubbing off against Mike like he’s a teenager and he doesn’t care. 

It’s hard to tell how much time has passed. Eventually, out of the velvet-soft, full-body feeling of arousal, Nate realises that he’s going to come. Mike’s cock is slick and wet in his hand, and he’s moving fast now. Mike’s fucking his hand, and the pressure of his body on Nate’s is almost unbearably good. The rub on Nate’s nipples, sparking and tender. The way his skin’s warm on Nate’s cock. The firm, comforting swell of Mike’s biceps boxing Nate in. He should feel trapped but he doesn’t. 

‘Mike,’ he says in a rush, wanting to warn him.

‘Uh huh,’ Mike says. His voice is strained.

Nate, through the rushing of blood in his ears and Mike’s tortured breathing above him, hears himself make a high, choked-off sound, and he comes so hard his jaw hurts from clenching it. He comes on his own wrist and on Mike, and something about that makes Mike bite at Nate’s shoulder and neck and groan again.

‘Come on,’ Nate says to him, low and urgent, ‘Come in my hand, I want you to.’

‘Fuck,’ Mike says against Nate’s ear, and he does—rigid with it, his cock pulsing in Nate’s hand. His weight comes down onto Nate’s chest, trapping Nate’s hand between them. Already the tension is draining out of Nate’s body and he knows he’s going to crash hard. 

‘Better than a supply tent,’ he manages to say. 

‘Less sand,’ Mike agrees. He rolls off Nate and Nate can hear him moving around on his side of the bed. Under the covers, Nate wipes himself clean with his boxers then drops them off the edge of the bed. Fuck it; he’ll sleep naked. When he rearranges himself, the bed is magically more comfortable, the pillow correct under his head. He lies very still and breathes deeply for a couple of minutes. He’s a little out of his own body, in a good way.

‘Good to be home,’ Mike says into the darkness, softly but with his usual dry amusement. He sounds breathless. Nate makes a wordless noise of agreement and reaches one hand out blindly for him. They move closer together, Nate on his belly and Mike’s arm over his back. 

And then Nate sleeps soundly for hours.


End file.
